Doubt
by ALEO
Summary: A graveyard on Halloween? Not the safest place to be. Written for the October 2009 challenge at hurt don at LiveJournal. Prompts- Who? Don, What? Magic, Where? Graveyard. Xover with Supernatural from a Numb3rs POV. Warning: supernatural themes. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_**Numb3rs: Doubt**_

**Disclaimer** – I don't own them, I just borrowed them. Numb3rs, Supernatural and associated characters are the property of those that created them. No copyright infringement intended. No financial reward gained. All real organisations are used in a fictional sense. Original characters and the storyline are mine however.

_**A/N:**__ Written for Clue Challenge #4, October 2009, at hurt_don on LiveJournal. Prompts: __**Who?**__ – Don. __**What? **__– Magic. __**Where?**__ – Graveyard. Crossover with Supernatural from a Numb3rs POV. Third in a series following _Unexplained_ and _Explained_. _

**CHAPTER ONE**

-100-1111-1110-

Andrew Regan abandoned his car and vaulted the fence at the end of the drive. Cursing, Special Agent Don Eppes brought the SUV to a sliding halt and leapt out. Backup was far too many miles away and he had to chase after the offender alone, no way was he letting him get away again. Regan had proven to be especially slippery, disappearing a month ago after a foot chase involving not just his team of FBI agents but a group of LAPD officers and a K9 unit as well. They'd saturated the small area and after hearing some yelling found nothing except for the fugitive's clothes and a rather large dog that they'd flushed out of some bushes. The LAPD's supposedly well trained German shepherd had inexplicably broken its lead and bolted, yelping in distress, in the opposite direction. It had taken a full day to find the panicked animal and no one could explain why it had reacted the way it had.

Following Regan's lead he also vaulted the fence and with his weapon drawn cautiously made his way through the well trimmed bushes to find himself heading up a small rise. At the top of the rise he recognised where he was, a graveyard. The grave markers gleamed oddly bright in the light of the full moon before fading as another cloud moved across the sky. The night had been alternately bright and dull as the series of clouds rolled by. This time he felt almost relieved as the night darkened allowing the brief taint of otherworldliness to fade. Even so, an unexpected superstitious shiver still tingled its way down his spine. He found himself remembering that tonight was Halloween before he shook it off. There was nothing here that could hurt him, except for Regan and he was more than capable of dealing with him. Returning to his task he finally caught sight of his quarry ducking around a larger mausoleum.

Moving quickly down the slope he entered the rows of graves, edging carefully along and grateful for the cover offered by the large stone blocks. He reached the spot where he'd last seen Regan and stopped, listening carefully for more signs of movement. A grunt and a scrape pointed the way. The soft, well tended ground allowed him to move silently as he approached his quarry's location. Another groan followed by a louder cry of pain had him adjusting his path as Regan's exact position was marked.

He carefully rounded another mausoleum and found Regan standing in full view. The man's hands were clenched at his sides and his head was thrown back. Another odd groan was followed by his back arching as if he were in sheer agony. Everything suddenly brightened as the cloud obscuring the moon moved on, allowing its reflected light to fall upon the scene. The next cry of pain sounded more like a howl and Don found himself experiencing another shiver down his spine.

Raising his gun Don stepped forward. "FBI! Freeze, Regan." He was completely ignored, Regan crying out once again as his back arched a second time.

"F-B-I!" Don yelled more forcefully and it seemed this time he was heard. Regan turned and looked right at him. For a moment Don could have sworn the eyes were yellow but he wrote it off as a trick of the light. What happened next he could never remember clearly.

Something changed. Regan changed. There was light, there was dark, Regan was there and then he wasn't but he still was. As was something else. Don's vision twisted at the sight and he had to look away as his mind refused to process whatever it was that was happening right in front of him. He clamped down on the sharp instinctive reaction to run, to flee. This was no fight or flight reaction, it was pure flight, pure fear as the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. He'd never felt unreasoned fear before and it took all his effort to remain where he was, grip white-knuckled on his gun. Through sheer willpower and stubbornness he was able to force his head up, to turn to look at Regan, training finally winning out over fear.

Regan was gone. There was a trail of sorts though, even if it made no sense. A line of shredded cloth that could only have been Regan's clothing lead away, disappearing behind another line of larger gravestones. The odd sight helped the agent regain his control. If Regan wanted to strip naked and run then that was his problem. Don knew what to do with a running offender and wasn't going to fall for some insanity plea Regan might have been trying to pull.

Shaking off the residue of the last few moments Don gave chase. "Regan, freeze!"

The trail ended and he continued, moving cautiously and clearing each shadow before he moved on. He still wasn't sure if Regan was armed or not, although without clothing that should be easy enough to determine when he next laid eyes on the man. Moving around another grave marker he slowed further as the shadows deepened now that another cloud moved over the moon. A sudden new shiver ran down his spine but he resisted the urge to get out of the graveyard _now!_ and wait for backup.

He nearly lost his composure at the low growl that sounded behind him. Breathing quick and hard as his heart threatened to leap from his chest he forced himself to turn slowly. His gun hand shook but he steadied it with his left as a darker shadow moved forward a foot or so and resolved into a large dog, one of the largest he'd ever seen. The silver tipped ears were laid back, the head was down below hunched shoulders and the tail was raised stiffly straight up and bristled. Even without the aid of moonlight the long, sharp teeth gleamed as the dog growled again, lips curled back. Don found himself locked into place as he stared into the unaccountably bright yellow eyes.

Another louder growl and Don realised that he'd forgotten to breathe. Forcing his lungs to work whatever spell he'd been under broke and was able to slowly slide one foot back, then the other. He needed to back off, clearly he'd stepped into the dog's territory and he needed to let it be. Regan be damned, he could pick up the offender's trail once he'd made his way safely around the dog. He made it one final step before the dog sprang.

Twisting away he quickly pulled the trigger, sending several rounds at the animal. Finding himself on the ground the agent moved quickly to regain his feet, understanding instinctively that lying on the ground was the very worst place he could be if he'd missed his target. The angry growl off to his right suggested that the dog was still very much in play, his shots must have gone wild. He backed away and the dog stalked after him. It gathered itself to spring again and Don didn't hesitate, firing repeatedly into the animal. This time he didn't miss but the dog didn't seem to notice, springing again and this time bringing the braced agent down. By standing and firing he'd made himself an easy, static target.

Desperately Don shoved his gun point blank against the chest of the dog as it stood over him, pulling the trigger until the dreaded moment a bare three shots later when the slide locked back and the weapon was empty. Still the dog didn't fall despite the hot blood that splashed against his hands from the wounds he'd delivered. There was no time to process this impossibility before the dog's growls changed to an even more threatening snarl as the lips pulled even further back away from the sharp teeth. The head suddenly lowered.

Operating on pure instinct, knowing that the dog's target was his exposed throat, he threw up his left forearm to block the lunge. There was pain and shock as the jaws closed around his arm. He found himself once more transfixed by the unearthly yellow eyes as the dog started to bite down, unable to bring his right hand up and club the animal over the head with his empty gun as his mind was screaming at him to do.

The gunshots were totally unexpected and more than welcome. He felt the dog jerk through its contact with his arm and its position straddling his body. The dog released his arm and turned, snarling in the direction of the shooter. Don read the meaning there, he was the dog's prey and it wasn't giving him up. The snarl suddenly changed tone, fading to a whine as more shots rang out. Now the dog yelped and reared up, howling in pain as more shots struck it. It snapped at its own flank and whined one last time before staggering away a few paces and collapsing.

Don was finally able to move, scrambling up and back until brought up by a large headstone while a figure calmly approached the dog and fired two rounds straight into the animal's skull. The dog finally lay still as the man stepped back. It took a few more moments before Don was sure enough to look away, seeking the stranger that had saved him with his opportune appearance.

His night of shocks was not over, it was Dean Winchester who calmly met his eyes. Don blinked, the fugitive was the last person he expected to see back in Los Angeles, let alone anywhere near him. Remembering that Dean rarely travelled alone he shifted his gaze and sure enough, standing a short distance away was Sam Winchester, Dean's younger brother. Both men were armed, Sam just now shoving his gun into his waistband before bending to pick up a bag at his feet. The agent turned back to the older Winchester automatically noting the gun held casually by his side just as the latest cloud moved aside and the bright moonlight returned.

"You going to put that away?" Dean finally spoke, a touch of amusement in his voice.

Don finally got his mind into gear as Dean referred to the empty gun that he'd almost forgotten he was still holding in his hand. Dean would recognise that it was empty, the slide still locked back and barrel exposed. It didn't escape his notice that Dean hadn't yet put his own weapon away. His mind was still working slower than it should and he couldn't hide the hesitation as he tried to decide how to play this. The Winchester didn't move, allowing him time to think on what he was going to do. Dean had not yet threatened him nor had he ordered he disarm just simply suggested he put his gun away. There was also the fact that Dean had already had several opportunities both in the past and tonight to kill him, opportunities that he'd not taken. He had in fact shot the dog to protect him. Shifting his gaze from one brother to the other and back again he decided there was really only one option, reloading now might put him in more danger than simply holstering the empty weapon. Moving slowly he slid the empty gun into his holster just as it was, it would only take a moment to reload it if needed. He absently rubbed at his left arm.

"Dean," Sam's voice called urgently. "Blood."

There was no amusement in Dean's voice now as he stepped quickly closer peering at the agent's left arm. "Is any of that yours? Did it bite you?"

Don remembered the jaws closing over his left arm, he wasn't going to forget that in a hurry. But a dog bite wasn't important, what the Winchesters were doing here was, right along with what he was going to do about it. He may have read their complete files since they last met and have formed some doubts about the bureau's interpretation of their actions but they were still high on the list of most wanted. Yet here he was not making any move to arrest them as he should, Dean's naked gun not withstanding. "Yeah, but it's just a scratch. What are you doing here?"

"Damn." Dean muttered, ignoring the agent's question. He turned and shared a significant glance with his brother before looking the agent in the eye. "I know you're going to jump to the whole wrong conclusion about this but-"

As Dean moved Don realised he'd let the man get too close. For the second time that night he found himself trying to twist away only to fail. Dean closed the gap and with a solid shove knocked Don off his feet. Hitting the ground hard Don tried to scramble upwards but as he'd done last time in the warehouse Dean kicked his feet out from under him and he went back down. _Fine, if Dean was going to keep knocking him down he'd stay down_, Don decided. If he rolled quickly enough he should be able to put sufficient distance between himself and his attacker so he could get to his feet and to cover. There was plenty of that but he had to reach it first. He also desperately needed that moment he'd thought of so casually earlier to reload his gun if he were to have any chance. Unfortunately Dean wasn't going to give him that moment, moving in and getting a foot planted firmly on the agent's right arm stopped his roll before he'd got any sort of momentum up.

Curling his torso upwards and bringing his injured left arm across Don was going to try to grab at Dean's lower leg to unbalance and hopefully throw him off but was stopped by the muzzle of a gun inches from his eyes.

"Get your ass back down."

The growled order was one Don had heard before. He eased back and held still as Dean bent and pulled the empty Glock from its holster and tossed it aside. The foot shifted from his right arm to settle its heavy weight against his chest. With no vest this time he could feel the rough tread of Dean's boot as the man pressed down. Staring up past the muzzle of Dean's pearl handled .45 Don saw his attacker glance briefly in the direction of the younger Winchester before returning his stare to his captive.

"Get his belt."

"What?"

"Sammy," Dean's voice took on a warning tone at his brother's question.

"Fine." The younger man moved forwards and Don felt him fumbling at his waist undoing his belt before pulling it free.

Dean's head then jerked south and Don felt Sam move down to his feet. With the threat of Dean's gun he fought the urge to kick out as Sam lifted his right ankle over his left and used his belt to tightly bind his ankles together. Clearly Dean remembered Don kicking at him last time. Hobbled he was completely at their mercy.

…


	2. Chapter 2

_**Numb3rs: Doubt**_

**Disclaimer** – I don't own them, I just borrowed them. Numb3rs, Supernatural and associated characters are the property of those that created them. No copyright infringement intended. No financial reward gained. All real organisations are used in a fictional sense. Original characters and the storyline are mine however.

_**A/N:**__ Written for Clue Challenge #4, October 2009, at hurt_don on LiveJournal. Prompts: __**Who?**__ – Don. __**What? **__– Magic. __**Where?**__ – Graveyard. Crossover with Supernatural from a Numb3rs POV. Third in a series following _Unexplained_ and _Explained_. _

**CHAPTER TWO**

-100-1111-1110-

"What are you doing?" Don finally demanded. Dean's sudden attack was completely at odds with how the encounter tonight had started. It had seemed as if the Winchester had been inclined to talk or at least to keep things reasonably civil just as he had last time. Instead though, he'd reverted to when they'd first met, attacking him violently and holding him at gunpoint.

Just as in the warehouse Dean ignored him, speaking to his brother. "Tell me it's not too late, Sammy."

"I don't know."

"What's too late?" Don interrupted but the brothers continued as if he wasn't even there.

"Have you still got the stuff?"

"Of course I do." Sam sounded annoyed as he knelt next to the agent's wounded arm.

"Then do it."

"Damnit, answer me!"

"Shut up, Fed. We don't have time to stop and explain everything to you." Dean growled. "Not tonight."

The look in Dean's eyes along with the slight shift of the gun silenced the agent. Don could only watch on as once again Sam took some items out of his bag in preparation of performing some strange ritual that made sense only to the two wanted murderers. He was no longer unsure just what the two men were. They'd made him doubt himself and the bureau after their last meeting had ended with some kind of uneasy truce, prompting his re-read of all the evidence against them. He'd come to a half-crazy conclusion that he'd kept carefully to himself but he realised now that he'd been duped, his understanding twisted by Dean's careful words and strange actions. The man had played his frazzled nerves against him and had secured this advantage that they immediately used against him.

Now he was helpless once again, secure in their hands as the younger Winchester laid out the objects he'd taken from his bag on the ground in front of him. There was a jar of dark, oily looking liquid, a small bottle containing more of the same, the battered diary Don had seen before and a wicked looking short bladed knife in a sheath. The final items made Don's mouth turn dry, a large container of salt, a container of gasoline and most dangerous of all, a lighter. He'd seen those before as well and his eyes followed them as they were placed away to one side.

"No-" The denial was drawn from his lips in a sudden return of the horror he'd felt all those months ago. He knew what the Winchesters did with salt, gas and a lighter. Before he could form any more words his left arm was grabbed and pulled out straight.

Jerking back with all of his strength he pulled it out of Sam's grip. It wasn't to last though, the younger man capturing his wrist and once again pulling his arm out straight. This time he shifted and placed his knee against Don's wrist, pinning the arm in place. In a quick movement Sam reached for Don's shoulder and gripping the fabric there yanked firmly down, ripping the stitching. With both hands Sam twisted and tore the sleeve down its length, ripping it from his arm and exposing the bite wound. Then the younger Winchester reached down and picked up the knife, pulling it from its sheath.

Don couldn't help but remember the last body he'd seen Sam working over, Candice Wells, a young mother violently murdered. He remembered the blood being everywhere even if he never got a close look at the wounds that caused her death. Seeing the faintly pinkish sheen of the silver knife being raised over his arm Don had had enough. Even as Sam flipped open his diary and started to read some gibberish he turned away. It was obvious he was now going to die the painful death he'd somehow escaped the first time, his body to be burned when they'd finished, all to satisfy some sick urge of the brothers Winchester.

He looked back up at Dean, flicking his gaze pointedly at the gun as he spoke. Surprised that his voice was steady he managed to keep his tone almost neutral. It was a plea nonetheless. "Use that. Make it clean."

"You still don't get it do you?" Dean argued. "We're trying to save your fed ass. You should understand that by now."

Somehow his snark hadn't abandoned him. "Hard to, right at the moment."

"This?" Dean shrugged, the gun shifting slightly as he indicated the items Sam had laid out and in the same motion the gun he held. "I let you up what will you do?"

"Not let you cut me." _Arrest you_, Don thought. _Run away_, his more primitive mind overruled.

"Exactly." Dean's foot ground harder against his chest even as the gun remained steady.

His plea rejected Don had to force Dean's hand, there was no guarantee he would be dead before they burned him if he let them play the game their way. If he won his escape, all to the better. He brought his free arm up and wrapped it around Dean's ankle but he didn't have enough strength or leverage to unbalance the man holding him down. Abandoning that attempt he tried to reach across to knock Sam's hovering knife away but with Dean's foot pressing his body down he couldn't get the distance he needed, his hand flailing helplessly too short. Giving up on that he brought his hand up sharply but even though Dean had short legs Don was unable to reach high enough to do any damage.

"Enough of that!" Dean ordered, drawing back the hammer on his gun as he shoved firmly downwards with his foot. "We don't want to kill you. Now, I'm going to let up a bit and you are going to slide your right arm under your back. Understand?"

Don stared up at the man, understanding all right but determined not to do as ordered. He would have nothing left. The hammer was back on Dean's gun, it was a start. The gun suddenly moved closer but the aim abruptly shifted to the side, to his right shoulder.

"I'm not telling you again."

Closing his eyes briefly in frustration he nodded, having failed in his attempt there was nothing left but to wait it out, suffer whatever they were about to do to him with only the last hope that every moment he remained alive gave his backup time to arrive on scene. He didn't believe Dean's reassurance that they didn't want to kill him even if his struggle had resulted only in the threat to disable him further by shooting him in the shoulder instead of a clean death. Being realistic about his circumstances he could save himself some pain by obeying the order and keep the possible later use of his arm if the situation changed. The pressure against his chest eased and he worked his right arm under his lower back. As expected Dean re-applied his weight once the agent had followed the instructions and his arm was trapped.

"What are you going to do to me?" It was a question, he had no power to make any demands.

"You won't understand. Just call it magic if you want."

"Magic doesn't exist."

Dean laughed at that as if it were a great joke. "Neither do werewolves."

"Were-?" _What the hell?_

"Wolves. _Were-wolves_." Dean repeated, annunciating each word clearly. "Jeez! They teach you nothin' at FBI school?"

They were completely off their rockers, Don decided. One hundred percent mad and he was their latest play toy.

"You read our files, right?"

"Crazy." Don breathed to himself.

Dean suddenly lunged, grabbing the side of Don's head by the hair. Jerking the agent's head to one side he pointed at the body of the dog with his gun. "You call that crazy? Huh?"

Against his will he looked, trying to breathe around the extra weight on his chest. All his discomfort disappeared as his eyes widened and he stared in shock. There was no dog, it was a man. It was Andrew Regan, lying in the same pose that he'd last seen the dog, naked and very dead. The body was marked with the unmistakeable signs of fresh bullet wounds, including a cluster in the center of his chest right where Don had fired point blank into the dog. Other wounds in the man's side were ringed with black bruises, tendrils leading away as if he'd been injected with black dye.

Don's mouth worked but nothing came out. The fresh assault on his reason leaving him speechless. Abruptly a short cry of pain forced its way past his lips just as he realised Sam's chant had stopped. Tearing his head free of Dean's grip he watched helplessly as Sam continued to slice open his lower arm, cutting through the bite mark there. Automatically he tensed struggling once again against the men restraining him. Just as before he failed and lay panting before something new intruded on his senses. His arm felt like it was on fire. He'd been cut before but it had never felt like this. Looking closer at the wound he could have sworn he saw wisps of steam or smoke rising from his abused flesh. As he watched, dark tendrils appeared on his skin and slowly started to spread outwards from the deep cut, following a pattern that looked very much like a tracery of veins. He'd seen this before; the marks were the same as those surrounding the bullet wounds in Regan's body.

"What the?" He gasped. The burning pain followed the path of the dark tendrils.

"He's infected." Sam announced, his voice sad.

"Hurry before it's too late." Dean ordered.

"I think it is." Sam continued. "All Hallows Eve gives it more power. You're going to have to do it."

"No. Keep working. There's still a chance. I don't want to-"

Panting sharply against the slowly spreading pain Don looked up at the cut off words. "Don't want to what?"

Dean's hands flexed on the grip of his gun. It was no longer aimed at the agent's shoulder. "Kill you. Although I suppose the correct term now would be 'put you down'."

"What?" He demanded in confusion, surprised at the reluctance in the elder Winchester's voice. Dean was repeating what he'd already said earlier but Don still didn't believe him. Surely their goal was to kill him once they'd had their fun even if Dean had stopped the dog from finishing him. Even now he found it hard to allow himself to acknowledge that the still form lying a short distance away was the dog. He'd hallucinated, he must have and he wasn't going to look back to check.

It certainly couldn't have been a werewolf.

"You're infected. That means you will be just like him next full moon." The gun flicked sideways for a bare instant, to the body the agent refused to look at, before returning to its deadly aim. "We can't let that happen. This is loaded with silver, you won't come back."

The concept of anyone coming back from close range bullet wounds to the heart, the current trajectory of Dean's weapon was laughable. He sobered quickly, he'd just emptied a whole clip of law enforcement ammunition into an animal without any notable effect. In a moment of sudden clarity he wondered if it really could be true. Looking back at his arm he saw that the dark marks had spread, following the lines of his veins up his arm in a slow crawl across his skin. He'd seen a lot of strange wounds in his time but nothing that looked like this.

What he was seeing made no sense, in fact, much of what he'd seen tonight had made no sense. Not unless he believed what he'd been told, then it actually did. He'd heard the stories, the folk-lore about werewolves and their allergy to silver. The pinkish tinge to the knife now made sense, it was pure silver and he'd reacted to it, reacted in the same way that Regan had to Dean's bullets. If he really had been infected with, he struggled to find the right term, with _something_, how long would it take for it to reach his heart and then be pumped around the rest of his body? _Was it already too late?_

"You," Don started, his voice low as he couldn't believe he was even entertaining this. The dark marks and the accompanying burning sensation continued their slow spread up his arm giving him the strength to continue. "You can stop it?"

"I don't know." Sam answered even as he worked, slicing a second time across the wound causing the agent's back to arch against the pain.

"Yes, we can." Dean insisted.

Biting back on a cry of pain Don swallowed against that comment as new fire spread across his arm. Dean's voice was final and, given the gun aimed at him, silver bullets or not he could believe the infection or whatever the hell it was would be stopped one way or the other. The tombstones rising around them took on a more sinister feel. If he were to allow himself to believe what he was seeing and hearing he found himself hoping that the Winchester's magic was real. Otherwise he would instead experience the reality and finality of bullets to his heart.

Sam resumed his chant as he uncapped the jar drawing the helpless agent's attention back to him. The jar was slowly tilted up and the dark contents were allowed to splash across and into the wounds he'd created. Don couldn't help the scream of agony, it was as if molten fire had been poured onto his arm. Taking a deep breath he clenched his teeth together so hard he was sure they were about to crack as he panted sharply though his nose, trying to stifle his reaction. The pain was intense, working its way up his arm as a moan escaped him. As he watched none of the liquid spilled onto the ground beneath his arm, it was as if it were being sucked into his body. The dark tendrils on his arm lightened slightly, taking on a more bluish tinge as they spread rapidly, making his arm look very much like one of those detailed tribal tattoos favoured by some. The intensifying pain reached his shoulder and started to spread across his chest. Soon it would reach his heart.

"Stop!" Don managed just as Sam's jar ran dry.

"Is it working?" Dean demanded.

"It looks like it might." Sam responded even if he sounded unsure. Putting the jar aside he reached for the small bottle, uncapping it and holding it up in the latest patch of moonlight. It was as if a cloud had passed just in time to allow the silver light to fall upon it.

Don's heart clenched as the fire reached it and he once more cried out in pain. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. His back again tried to arch against the weight holding him down and he opened his eyes in time to see the small bottle being lowered towards his lips. It must have been a trick of the light but it almost looked as if it were glowing with a silvery tinge. Desperate to avoid more pain from whatever poison they were about to force onto him next Don jerked his head aside. A hand curled into his hair and forced his head back even as a second hand pinched his nose closed. With his mouth pursed shut he couldn't breathe but it was pain that forced it open, not the need for air. His heart clenched again and he screamed.

The mouth of the bottle was shoved between his teeth and tilted upwards, its foul contents running quickly onto his tongue. The bottle was pulled away just as he snapped his jaw shut. Sam's voice rose again. Unable to spit the liquid out with his jaw held firmly shut and nose still pinched he swallowed convulsively. Almost instantly new indescribable agony flared through his body from the inside out. All thought fled and he was aware of nothing more.

…


	3. Chapter 3

_**Numb3rs: Doubt**_

**Disclaimer** – I don't own them, I just borrowed them. Numb3rs, Supernatural and associated characters are the property of those that created them. No copyright infringement intended. No financial reward gained. All real organisations are used in a fictional sense. Original characters and the storyline are mine however.

_**A/N:**__ Written for Clue Challenge #4, October 2009, at hurt_don on LiveJournal. Prompts: __**Who?**__ – Don. __**What? **__– Magic. __**Where?**__ – Graveyard. Crossover with Supernatural from a Numb3rs POV. Third in a series following _Unexplained_ and _Explained_. _

**CHAPTER THREE**

-10111-1001-1110-11-1000-101-10011-10100-101-10010-10011-

This time when the fed's back arched Dean was unable to hold him down. The man's body stretched taught like a bow, only the back of his head and ankles remained on the ground as the arms curled up tight against his chest. Both Dean and Sam staggered back as the fed screamed once again before going into convulsions.

"Sammy."

"It's working." Sam insisted. He critically watched the writhing form. The incantation was finished, the prepared potions delivered just as instructed and the reactions they were seeing were spoken of in the copy of the ancient text he'd been working from.

Sam had made the potions in the hope of saving Regan if they'd been able to get to him in time, even if the text had claimed the ritual would only work on the newly infected. Sam had thought it worth the shot and if they'd failed they still had the silver bullets in their guns. Instead Dean had been forced to shoot Regan and they'd had to use the ritual on the fed, newly infected by the werewolf just as they'd reached him. Now they just had to wait, the fed could either die or lapse into unconsciousness.

There was a snap and the belt binding the fed's ankles tore apart, leaving his legs now free to drum against the ground. His body gave one last jerk, the force enough to lift the man completely off the ground before he flopped back bonelessly and lay still. A few moments passed before the chest shuddered and rose slightly, rising again more smoothly a few seconds later. He was still alive.

"Did it work? You said it was working." Dean demanded impatiently.

Moving closer Sam inspected his handiwork. "He's alive. Look at his arm."

Dean joined his brother looking down at the fed's left arm. The black marks from the silver poisoning were completely gone. But that wasn't all, the werewolf's bite was healed over, as were the two cuts Sam had made with the silver knife. Scars were all that remained, scars that gleamed almost silver in the moonlight.

"Get the knife, we have to be sure."

"You want me to cut him?"

Dean blinked at Sam's sudden squeamishness. He'd had no problem cutting the fed while he was awake to feel it. "Give it here, I'll do it."

Bending Dean placed the blade against the unconscious fed's left arm. Pressing down with the tip he drew the blade back just enough to cause a small bead of blood to well up. Nothing else happened. He pressed a little harder, driving the silver blade in deeper and held it there. Still nothing, no creepy black mark spreading up the fed's arm, much to his relief. That had been just plain wrong.

"He's not allergic to silver any more." Sam diagnosed. "It did work."

"Yeah, looks like it." Dean removed the knife from the wound and cleaned the blood from its tip. He looked over at the werewolf's body. "We'd better finish this."

-100-1111-1110-

Don Eppes saw the man just as he rounded the corner on the way out of his building. Freezing instantly in place he locked eyes with Dean Winchester. Knowing the other brother would be nearby and that escape was most probably futile if his previous efforts were anything to go by he didn't move, not even attempting to draw the gun from his hip. It wasn't just the gun already aimed at him that stopped him, he suddenly experienced the ghost of the unbearable pain he'd suffered at their hands when last they met. He'd thought it buried deep within his memory but now it resurfaced and he gasped before he could prevent it.

Finally he did move, risking being shot but the urge to rub at the strange silver scars on his left arm was too strong. He suddenly understood why they were back, it was the full moon tonight and they were back to see if he had become like Regan. If he'd become a werewolf.

He'd regained consciousness back in that graveyard last month to find himself alone. His entire body had ached so much he couldn't move and there had been the foulest taste in his mouth. When he was next aware there had been hands on him and he'd instantly reacted, fighting to free himself before their voices had penetrated the fog around his mind. It had been Colby and David, his back up had finally arrived. While Nikki hovered over the burnt remains of Regan's body they'd loaded him into an ambulance and he'd spent the next several days in the hospital while they ran every test known to medical science on him.

The version he'd told his team in the graveyard before he'd been able to censor himself was unbelievable, even to him, and he was glad when they'd written it off as blood loss, he'd been lying in a pool of it. But they believed he'd been forced to drink something against his will and they'd had to be sure that it would do no lasting harm. He endured his stomach being pumped without complaint, it was far less than what he'd just been through. The results came back showing he'd ingested a concoction containing amongst many other things a significant amount of wolfsbane. The medical staff had been astonished, the active ingredient aconite was fatal even in small doses and the amount he'd taken should have killed him long before he'd been found. His blood work showed elevated levels of silver most probably absorbed from the strong silver nitrate base of the potion. Recent follow up blood tests showed those same elevated levels of silver even if he wasn't showing any of the effects of having that much of the metal in his system.

The battery of tests had included scans and biopsies of the scars on his arm, his team had confirmed he'd not had them before pursuing Regan even if they appeared to be old. The small fresh cut was easy enough to explain based on Don's description of the knife Sam had wielded. It had healed naturally and now, a month later, he had an additional scar, a small silver line that matched the others.

The Winchester's claim that Regan was a creature out of folk-lore was a little harder to disprove scientifically given the state of the body. The Winchesters had put the can of gas to good use after they'd finished with him. All that had remained was a charred and twisted mess of mostly bone. The medical examiner had confidently declared there to be nothing unusual about Regan, even though he had little to work with. Don's wild tale had been mentioned and he'd dismissed it instantly, treating it with the contempt he felt it deserved. The final autopsy report didn't even mention it, just listing among the usual things his discovery of salt along with pieces of melted metal.

Most of the metal was identified as the remains of standard issue law enforcement bullets whilst some was identified as pure silver. The initial conclusion was that both the agent and the Winchesters had fired on Regan and that he'd died as a result of gunshot trauma. With Don denying firing on the man it was decided that the Winchesters had used Don's Glock as well as their own weapons and had killed Regan for some purpose of their own. The Glock was tested for prints and the case was made as prints belonging to Dean Winchester were identified. Another murder was added to the Winchester's tally.

There was no sign of any dog, even if the double row of jagged silver dots across the back of Don's arm, unmarred by Sam's knife, looked remarkably like a dog bite. An expert had suggested it was more lupine than canine but everyone knew there were no wolves in LA.

"So," Dean started as he stalked slowly closer. His weapon may have been held down at waist level but the agent had no doubt about its aim. "Feel the need to howl at the moon?"

Warily Don shifted as he saw movement in his peripheral vision, it was Sam moving in. This late at night the parking lot was deserted and there was no one that could help him. He suddenly suspected that the late night callout to attend a scene had been a hoax, designed to lure him out and into the moonlight and the Winchester's reach. He retreated, putting the wall against his back even though he didn't see any weapons in the younger brother's hands. Dean's was plenty enough anyway. "No."

Dean looked at him closely, reading the fear and uncertainty clearly. "I totally knew you were going to get the wrong impression."

"I think I have grounds."

"Dean, leave him alone." Sam interrupted, holding out a hand as Dean made to move in even closer.

"I'm cool." Dean responded, releasing the hammer on his pistol and sliding it into the top of his jeans.

Don still made no move to draw his own weapon, it had done him little good in the past. He jerked his head indicating the gun that had just been put away. "Silver?"

"Yep." Dean confirmed. "We needed to be sure."

"So what now? Are you sure?" Don wasn't sure he could survive a second round if they weren't. As the thought crossed his mind he decided there wasn't going to be a second round, resolving not to surrender this time if things twisted again.

"I think you're good." Dean answered. He dug into a pocket and pulled out a familiar object. "I've still got your cell so call when you wanna talk."

Don recognised the phone that they'd taken from him back when they'd tricked Charlie into running some calculations for them. Despite Charlie remembering exactly what they'd given him his results hadn't really made any sense. Having the nearest Field Office attend the designated location had turned up nothing but an odd burnt patch in an otherwise empty bit of desert. A dead end.

"I could trace you on that."

"Nah, I only turn it on every other day or so. Besides, we've had a friend work some magic and now your computers can't track or record the line. Leave a message, we'll get back to you."

"C'mon, Dean." Sam called taking a step back. "We've seen what we needed. We better go before he calls it in."

"You going to call it in?" Dean queried, holding his ground.

There was no threat in the tone but Don already knew he wasn't going to do that. "No."

Dean's face took on the cocky grin he'd seen before. "Well, I think we're done. See ya round, Fed."

Don watched them go, melting into the night as if they'd never been there. He leant back against the wall in relief, waiting for the shakes to ease. He'd had plenty of time to think over what had happened back in the graveyard and he'd come to some pretty strange conclusions. This latest visit gelled with what he'd decided. He hadn't been duped as his panicked thoughts that night had believed. There was something to the Winchesters, something more than what the files said. They were most definitely dangerous, he could attest to that, and he certainly didn't understand or trust them but the doubt was enough to make him hold off from reporting this latest contact.

Perhaps he would take up Dean's offer to call, he would find it easier to ask questions if he wasn't suffering any of the perfectly reasonable fear reactions that their mere presence brought him. But only if he could be sure they had in fact defeated the trap and trace that had been set up on the line. The bureau had left the cell active in an effort to track the Winchesters if they ever decided to use it; the brothers had a history of hanging onto cell phones. It was another small detail now proven to be true.

Don finally eased away from the wall and started to head over to his SUV before remembering that his callout was probably fake. A quick call and he confirmed there were no jobs pending for either him or his team. Thanking the operator he turned and headed back towards the entrance to his building. At the door he hesitated and couldn't help the glance upwards at the silvery disc of the moon. Suppressing the shudder he punched in his code and went inside. Since his experience it no longer seemed quite as beautiful or serene as it once had.

END

_**A/N:**__ So there we have it. With these prompts I couldn't resist bringing back the Winchesters. Poor Don, struggling to understand this new world he's bumped into a couple of times now. _


End file.
